Short Poems For Literature

Poems For Literature in short poems and Long Poems By The famous poets of the literature. The best short poems by American poets. Anne Bradstreet, ‘To My Dear and Loving Husband’. Walt Whitman, ‘I Hear America Singing’. Emily Dickinson, ‘That it will never come again’.

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; – on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, not peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

This Life

This life is all about rising and falling,
running through the terrains
of surreal moments, and clinging
on hopes and fears to face
the vicissitudes that leaves traces,
like the scars, that creeps,
screams, revisit one’s dreams,
and sometimes mesmerize and gesticulate
toward the labyrinth of freakish dreams.

Waves of nostalgia
The waves of nostalgia
trample on the past,
deepening the bleeding wounds
that will never heal.

Let this frosty night cover
the mind in its blanket of serenity,
and be the guardian of the night
to chase the dragon from the dreams…


The reflection seems so fragile
on the broken mirror, that even if I touch
even with a gentle stroke, I might shatter
myself into a myriad shards, silently.

A desperate silence
Leave me alone in the desperate silence
to shriek and yell to the sky for answers,
as the anguish of lonesomeness starts
to collide with the miasma of gloominess.

But I am the dead, wearing a dreary face,
whose unheeded voice drifts in the wilderness
just to fade away into the bleakness of emptiness.

To the estranged friend…

This is not what you thought you’ll ever hear,
nor I ever intended these feelings to reveal.
Now, I wish this iffy entanglement to be free.
That would be good for you, and good for me.

Today, I felt like I should flush
the smouldered resentment,
or I should break away
from the estrangement,
for whatever the consequence.

I always tried to pull you close,
despite that you always repelled.
I desire not clipping your wings,
nor your pretentious affinity.
It’s neither good for you,
nor good for me.

This withered relationship,
either needs a cure, or a kill,
or separate ways to start off
a new beginning.

In the state of blindness, my quivering steps
were entangled by the labyrinth of confusions,
and tumbled into the quagmire of wretchedness,
which besmirched the pristine thoughts ruthlessly,
and alienated my life in the wilderness of insanity.

Maybe the karma of my life is pallid and murky,
hurled with vicissitudes, and fenced with melancholies,
or I am just a blind, failing to espy the fragile beauty,
delicate as an exquisite rose, that a life showers.